vous brillez ce soir
by soaring-smiles
Summary: He takes her to somewhere he had previously no intention of going near, the implication uncomfortable on them both. But he brings her. He doesn't know why.


He takes her to somewhere he had previously no intention of going near, the implication uncomfortable on them both. But he brings her. He doesn't know why.

Maybe the look that lights up her eyes when she swings open the door and sees all of it laid out at her fingertips, for her.

_(and he has done that, see. He takes perverse pleasure in knowing no other man has done this, no other person can give her what he does)_

Maybe it's the way she stares at him, grin dancing around the corners of her mouth.

"You took me to Paris," she says, awestruck, and he smiles, ready to show her everything she wants to see.

Whatever it is, he stands beside her at Sacre Coeur-

_sacred heart_

-and watches the city gleam beneath them, people and life and love, and it might be Earth, 20th century, it might be dirty and unclean and broken, but this has to be one of the most beautiful places he's seen in a while.

He wonders if he'd feel the same, if her small hand wasn't cradled in his.

* * *

They watch the Seine go by, and she adorns herself with a pink beret she haggled over bitterly, and he'd rather die than tell her she's adorable, but she is. A bright splash of colour amongst the grey; he's got his driving wrong, and they are there during October rather than June.

_(it could be the way it's so cold she keeps hold of him, it could be that she shivers into him, and her hair brushes against his shoulder, while he fights to not beam)_

The clouds gather heavy in the sky, low and dark, a stormy blanket thrown over them. It starts raining, thick and hard, drenching him and her, and she laughs, trying to catch the drops on her tongue, tilting her head back, and he just watches her silently, fingers clenched to stop him from reaching for her, and tugging her towards him.

_(he would like to catch her tongue himself, and become one of those stock photos; the man in leather kissing the pretty blonde girl against the bridge, while water slips off of her nose onto his, and her hair is plastered to her forehead. Her makeup will run, but he won't mind)_

And he remembers what he said once to her, and the blood and concrete that followed, the tears and strained silences. The shattered glass and cracked faith, in pieces on a worn carpet.

_"Be careful what you wish for."_

He wishes for her.

He is done being careful.

* * *

When the sky is light again, she passes up the Louvre for Disneyland, and looks unconcerned at missing the greatest artistic triumphs culture has to offer.

"Jus' paintings, right? Think." She loops her arm around his, smiling delightedly, "We can meet a talking mouse!"

And he stares for a moment. He was so sure she would want to spend her day in a historic old museum(_what they would have done)_ But her eyes are pleading, and the wind is picking up around her, rustling the hem of her dress (_it is far too short already)_

He could never resist her, really. A weakness, he thinks. She is his weakness. That does not frighten him as it should, that he is so attached for this human girl that he would kill for her.

_(and killing for her is far more dangerous than dying for her)_

Rose insists that they do the whole experience, that they buy train tickets, and damn it all to hell, the things he does for a flash of lips and teeth.

It turns to be to his advantage. The ride is mostly passed, after the frantic fumbling for the right train, with her skin on his jacket, her head falling against his shoulder, one hand pressed against his left heart.

_Sacred heart_, he thinks again, and looks out at the window, watching France pass by in a green blur. The place is away from Paris, out from the hustle and bustle.

He doesn't mind. Not when she's snoring lightly, and fisting the fabric of his now-favourite green jumper. Her non-sensical mumblings bring out the protective side of him again.

He plays with timelines after that, trying to find the one he sees, when she is angled a certain way, or her stance curved over just that little bit. The one tinged in gold, that promises-

_justperhapsmaybehopefullywe'llsee_-

forever.

He would like that.

But he is distracted by her again, as her nose screws up, and his impressive brain is taken over by sweetly domestic compliments he hopes to Rassilon will never be uttered to her.

Then again.

Rose shifts, mouth gently brushing the skin between wool and leather. It burns beneath the slight touch, sending flames down to settle in his stomach.

_Oh, my girl_, he laments silently. What have you done?

* * *

"Oh. My. God," says Rose, pointing wide eyed at the elaborate castle, and letting her inner five year old out to play.

He has seen her flirty, happy, embarrassed, angry, sad, jealous, terrified, silly, but never completely enchanted by something as mundane as this. And he does not find it endearing. At all.

As he resigns himself to a day full of cheap thrills and tacky rides, something glowing in her stops him in his grumpily reluctant tracks. It has been a while since he's seen innocence.

(_she is no blushing virgin but that is carnal innocence. This, this is pure delight, like she is seeing things for the very first time. And perhaps she isn't so well-versed in the physical aspect either, or at least, not in the way he would take her-and he mustn't think of that, not in daylight with her so close)_

He would like to enjoy it while it lasts.

And so she squeals in the Haunted House, while he sits utterly unimpressed by the flashy gizmos and tricks. Humans, he frowns. So easily spooked.

How on earth does this frighten her? She's seen Reapers, Slitheens, even a flap of talking skin, and she's shrieking at a bit of sudden movement and chopping silvery blades?

He will never understand it.

_(he does rather enjoy her little movements though, her little shocked gasps and inhales, and the tightening of her fingers on his sleeve)_

* * *

"Please?" She tugs him towards the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, sending excited looks his way. "I love that movie! Mum reckons that Depp bloke is right handsome."

"Does she now?" the Doctor mutters, sighing at the queue, which spans several rows. But Rose is too busy bouncing on her heels, and so he stows away his disdain

_mild terror_

of her mother, and tries his best to be enthusiastic.

It could be twenty minutes, and they've barely moved. He reaches in his pocket. "Want to do something a bit stupid?" he murmurs in her ear, to her nod. "Right then."

And he's got her hand, vaulted the poles, and is dashing down the front, holding up the psychic paper, and yelling something about safety inspectors.

(_and in retrospect, he probably should have grabbed life jackets before jumping in the boat. He is half panicked that it's going to tip over.)_

Surprisingly, he likes it. Telling her about his experiences with pirates, making her splutter, raising his eyebrow at the mistakes they've made, and the clunky animatronics.

_(They get soaked, when the boat dips. Twice His eyes stray towards the figure that is so clearly outlined under damp lace and cotton. Her dress clings to her legs, and sticks to her all the way up to the swell of her breasts, where he goes red, and ends his scrutiny)_

He notices-how could he not- she stretches to his obvious benefit, arched back, curves displayed prominently, and he attempts to crush the hope and lust that burns in his chest.

It does not work, of course.

* * *

"A balloon? Pretty please?"

He shells out, and she chooses a yellow and white one., frowning in confusion at it. "How do they get the one inside the other?"

He shrugs, smirking a little. "Maybe it's bigger on the inside."

She snorts, looking down at the floor through a tangle of slightly wet hair.

"Always got an answer for everything."

"Most things, yeah." He crosses his arms. "Hungry yet?"

"You gonna pay this time?" Her tongue is peeking out through her teeth. Has it always affected him like this?

"Might do. If you make it worth my while." He's not usually this cheeky-

_suggestive_

-is he?

"Here's a deal," she offers, hand in her hip, "you pay, and I'll do whatever you want."

_(he wants her. So badly he aches)_

"Convinced me, you have. Right. Pizza or chips?"

She rolls her eyes towards the clouds. "D'you even have to ask?"

(_he gets her ice cream after, just to watch her, to track the stickiness it leaves on her lips, and give into daydreams where he kisses it away)_

* * *

The Wild West, next, the dynamite ride she desperately wants to go on. The line is so long it stretches out of the rock and down the slope, but she sets her jaw, and glares at him.

"Don't you dare," she hisses, "take this away from me."

He backs off, and stands crankily, arms folded, shuffling foward like sheep in a pen. The incessant music irritates him, but so do the loud tourists in front of him, and the bitter ones at the back of him. He longs to shake them all.

There is no mad dash; Rose is still guilty about their first. By the time they reach a spot close to the ride, he is fidgeting uncontrollably, fiddling with the sonic; gaining strange looks from strangers, and huffing.

She glances back with amusement, and in that short sharp delicious second, he knows exactly what it is.

It is her collarbone, the shadow underneath it. The ever-ready smile, and too defined lashes. It's the strands of badly coloured hair, and the dark eyebrows over darker eyes. It's the fond exasperation, and sparkle in them that breaks his fragile armour to little pieces.

He wait without fuss for the next ten minutes, content to be ever so slightly domestic, glaring at the boy who's directing his gaze somewhere south of her her face. and threading her fingers through his.

With a sigh, he remembers when people looked at him with awe and respect. Sandwiched among the tacky plastic decor, and mundane humans-

_excepting present company_

-he is so completely not _him_.

(he does, however, aim the sonic at the whingy kid behind him, and make his toy malfunction)

* * *

The sun is falling, streaking the sky with pink and purple and a deep rosy red, a canvas of the vibrant. They wander around Fantasy Land, Rose recalling fond memories of princesses.

(_she likes Belle the best, because Ariel is a whiny little so-and-so, Snow White is helpless, and Cinderella and Aurora are too blonde. He finds that a bit rich.)_

They laugh at the adult sized dresses, and wince at the actual princesses prancing about. The castle is lit up, a haze of lights and shine, luminous against the rapidly approaching dark.

"Who's your favourite?" Rose asks, scuffing her leopard print flats. He considers.

"Don't breathe a word, Rose Tyler, but..."

She leans forward, eager to catch a rare secret. "Yeah?"

He lowers his voice to a mock-whisper, casting his gaze around furtively, "_Anastasia_."

She claps a hand over her mouth, eyes twinkling merrily. "But Doctor," she breathes, "that's _Fox_. You could be arrested."

_(he does notice a rather murderous look on Snow White's face, which makes him hurry her along)_

A candy floss later, sugar is melting on her tongue, and they are watching the parade with avid interest.

_(at least, she is)_

"Wow." Rose stares, slightly horrified. "That is..."

He nods. "Yep. Just a bit. Wanna leave?"

"Yeah. Let me find a bin to put this in."

She has to pop round the corner due to the crush of people, and then round another, scanning the deserted lane for a waste-basket.

He stands next to her, and her breath is candy-sweet. His hands fist. Rose lifts her shoulders, dress shifting on her thighs.

"Suppose they've been cleared up. Is a bit late..."

"Right." The word is tight, and concern flares up briefly in her.

"You okay?"

"Course."

"Sure?"

Rose is biting her lip, and he looks away abruptly, jacket too hot suddenly.

And then-_oh_-her hand is in his, her familiar grip aiming to soothe, but having the opposite effect. Her thumb strokes across his knuckles, settling in the hollows.

Stupid lovely beautiful thing.

He has her back pressed up against the brick before she has time to gasp, pinned between him and the wall so solidly she cannot move.

He takes a quiet moment to register her heartbeat under her clothes; it speeds and flutters. She raises her head, looks at him eye to eye.

"Doctor..."

He could stop now, for her. So he gives her time, as he leans down slowly, hovering there, waiting, anticipation almost unbearable.

"Go on," she says.

He's soft, at first, because he wants this to be gentle, intimate.. A quick kiss, than a longer, more tender one. This is dizzying, the way she's pressing back, the way her arms wind around his neck, reaching up on her toes to move better.

He cups her face, and her mouth opens under his, hot and sweet, willing. He traces his tongue along hers, tugs gently at her lower lip, and her sigh greets him, as she melts into him.

They pause, her shock palpable, the taste of her still clouding his senses, her pheromones tainting the air.

"Wh-what brought that on?"

He decides he likes her reddened lips, the flushed cheeks. Sort of like he's just claimed her.

"Been coming a while," he confesses, and she breaks out in a beaming smile.

"D'you mind if we go home? Don't fancy havin' at it' in Disneyland."

He grins.

"Fantastic."

* * *

The night shines over Sacre Coeur, as they stumble up to the TARDIS, breathless giggles and soft murmurs breaking the silence.

_Sacred heart_, he remembers, taking a last moment to admire the city and the twinkling lights that ignite everything.

Well, she is at that.


End file.
